I'm not big on resolutions, so here's a list of the some of the stuff that Happened this year- all of which is Important (at least at this writing), none of which was resolved
- 38,500 Quake III frags since the early summer. 43,700 if you count my home
machine. Go me.
- I'm Still Not Smoking (I started Not Smoking in August)
- 76 pages of ATC
- Relinquished drivers license (expired 1999) for state ID
- Started a bank account, got direct deposit. Money is piling up.
- Upgraded home machine from beige G3 to G4 dual 450- the only computer to
pass through my hands this year. 2005 should see another upgrade.
- Nicotine free, I've started building my library again.
- Hung out with Xeno for the first time in a few years- a few days split between
Clinton and Allegheny counties at an obscene monetary burn rate, with lots
of booze, poop jokes, and so forth.
- Turned 25. Officially pushing 30. Summed up The Story Thus Far with Memory
Lane (still haven't responded to Kyle's email- sorry about that, man!),
which is an extremely abbreviated history of Everything that leaves out all
of the badevil things and most of the good stuff as well. It is, however,
- Hung out with Bryan for the first time in a few years- five days on another
- Fulltime at work (effective September, give or take)- slight raise, paid
- Discovered the wonders of Amazon.com (books!)
- Discovered the wonders of buying stuff elsewhere online (keyboard)
- Discovered the wonders of the discman (particularly useful at the laundromat)
- Moved away from jeans (to dark blue/gray camo Battle Pants)
- Saw Skinny Puppy in Philly (the only show I bothered with this year)
- Pumpcon (my first con EVAR!)
- Registered to vote.
- Stopped lugging around the powerbook. One battery died, then the power brick that can charge the machine died, then 1g USB pen drives hit the same price (after rebate) as a fourth power yo-yo, and that, as they say, is that.
- Biochemical issues continue to become more pronounced.
- Drew less pr0n this year than at any point in the past eight years. Less sketching, anyway- there's 23 pieces of pr0ncg in the 2004 directory.
- Record low number of ATC and mercury site revisions- two each.
Apparently my roommate tried to clean the water filter with dish detergent, as evinced by the froth of fragrant suds the resovior shat out when I attempted to fill the thing early this afternoon. After a thorough rinsing, it still smells odd but doesn't bubble anymore. I'm sure he would have figured out his error if he ever bothered to actually fill the fucking thing, but that's neither here nor there. This bit of unpleasantness (that being a good five or ten minutes dicking around to fill my water bottle and wondering why they call it "common" courtesy) lay the groundwork for the rest of the afternoon and early evening, as follows.
None of the 1998-era film turned out. Which means one of three things- either (a) Giant Eagle film development subcontractors are more censor-friendly than wal-mart, (b) generic film is shit for quality, or (c) those rolls were never shot. Expectations of an archeo-anthropological glimpse into my past were shat on by a mousey brunette in a faux lab coat and authentic bad teeth. I stormed out* with the ghastly tendrils of a depression clawing their way up my cortex.
This bit of unpleasantness gave way to having my ears and mind gang-raped by the vicious syphillitic skullrending frequencies of whiny post-Cobaine alternapop gleefully dispensed by the manure spreader that is the Radio Shack home theater demo hardware. It was agnozing to say the least, and did nothing to stabilize my already unstable mindset. Point of fact, this aural shitbomb seemed to go intentionally out of my way to get in my face and ears and intentionally disgust me to near-violence- the prozac-and-thorazine pep of the lardheap clerk actually humming along to the fucking song boiled my anxiety to a near-frenzy of uncontrolled screaming.
But I am a god damned badass, and god damned bad asses do not lose it in public.
I never did find the RCA switch I was looking for. The shitstorm of "music" ushered in the opening strains of the anxiety attack- I opted for a coupler (freeing up my own switch) and left the store post-haste, head spinning, mind seething, incoherent. Wondering how much Godflesh it was going to take to scrub the popshit out of my head. On the way back, remembering that it's no specific song- it's the fucking hertz range that anything that hits the top forty is recorded in. The sound that hits the sheep like soma is like nails across the chalkboard of my sentience, and bows to no restrictions of genre, gender, age or era. I'm sure this can be tested for, narrowed down, and filtered. No surprise if it's in the same hertz range as babies and telephones.
Home, with five or six hours of extended FUCK MY HEAD IS GOING TO FLY APART unfocused high-anxiety panic attack THING, along with butterflies in the stomach and vague nausea. Cheap entertainment if you're the sort who puts Eraserhead, Tetsuo and Begotten at the top of your list of Best Movies Evar. Otherwise, a hellish sort of experience whereby you're essentially stumbling around in the back of your mind, frozen in terror as the front and lower regions tear themselves apart. Burying myself in a book helped for awhile, but eventually the torrent got past that barricade at the same time the mast showed up in Malabar, and I found myself unable to proceed further, headmeats strapped to the launch pad of OMFGDOSOMETHINGNOW.
I've eaten (twice), I've been out of the fucking house. My hands are still fucked from yesterday's ATC production marathon**, and still my mind refuses to cease with the incoherent SCREAMING, like the blast of air that rips through a car when you crack a window at high velocity- destroying speach and ripping up the cabin. Only the fucker won't roll up- it has, in fact, become a sort of perpetual motion machine, feeding on anything that strays within line of sight.
Back in August, I would have just smoked it off- I'm beginning to think that this unpleasant spate of (seemingly random) mental freakouts is another one of those things nicotine was troweling over like so much plaster on a shitty, uneven wall. :P
The blackest bit- the bit that makes the void explode into a fresh burst of incoherent banshee wailing every time it enters my stream of consciousness- is that today I'm on the receiving end of two pieces of gift art a warm invitation from Ramsey to hang out and ring in the new year.
No reason to be freaking out, right?
Exactly, and completely beside the point, as biochemistry has never given the ghost of a shit about the day planner. Rather than a day full of happy, I've spent the day freaking the fuck out and contemplating the immediate and long-term benefits of trepanning. You can't forget to take, forget to refill, forget to drink a glass of water with a hole in your fucking head.
* Small comfort- on the way into the store, some ghetto piece of genetic waste, blatantly not paying attention, attempted to exit through the entrance, which is an automatic door. I smirked as the glass slammed into her face and stormed through, proferring no apology- her lapse, her loss. She would have smacked into it anyway, as her friends hadn't noticed either. The Giant Eagle traffic shaping was obviously done by a goddamned retard, and may eventually be remedied of the type of genestain with a litiguous heart is "victimized" in a similar fashion.
** This seems to have started yesterday. I took an anxiety attack with me to bed last night for the first time in several months- possibly years. It sucked, and I did not pass out until after five. Woke up with it out of my system only to trip over it again in the kitchen.
Last I checked, 31 December is the tenth day of winter. You know, the season with the snow and the ice and the cold and the flu and the salt trucks and the glare and "Wow, I'm starting to get an idea as to the COLD that Ivan Denisovich endured, only he'd think this shit was Florida because he was in a motherfucking SIBERIAN GULAG."
Weather data is, as usual, courtesy of the gubment.
According to the mac rumor mill, there's a sub-600$ Macintosh in the works.
Minimal specs, headless. Fucking headless. Right now, if you want a Mac without a monitor, they start at 1500$. Pretty fucking steep for an 80g hard drive an 256 megs of ram, don't you think? The rumor mill is spouting of things like 10/100 ethernet, USB 2.0, Firewire 400, VGA (holy fuck), combo optical, shit hard drive capacity, etc, etc. The rumor mill is claiming this sucker's aimed at potential switchers. You know, the "I wanna be cool like the kids who take their iPods to shop at the GAP " motherfuckers who go apoplectic every time they see the price tag on useable Apple swag.
Maybe. If this thing is real, you can bet it's also aimed at people who want a second Mac, people who don't need stupid amounts of horsepower, people who consider firewire expandable enough, and poor motherfuckers like me who can't afford a 1500$ start point with another 600$ sunk in before the machine is useable.
Slashdot whined that they want an expandable version and PCI slots and bluetooth and the kitchen sink and, as usual, missed the fucking point. That's what the G5 and the rest of the line are for. This is Apple shifting into the pusher role- this is the first hit on the crack pipe. And Apple being the pusher, the first one's gotta be as free as they can make it.
I already have an expandable machine- a G4 with three PCI slots, an AGP slot, four PC-100 ram slots, two firewire ports, etc. Fucker has three monitors, two SATA hard drives and so on and so forth. It's strangled by dual 450mhz processors, which is enough to run the OS and surf the web and listen to mp3s and edit video and watch divx- perfectly useable until I load photoshop, at which point it's living in swap, the mouse is doing a doggy paddle, and it's completely useless.
Naturally, Photoshop hauls ass when the machine is running OS 9.
If the iBox is real, I'm buying one as soon as they're available. Yeah, it's the new 6100 (and hence further proof that Apple's stopped innovating and started polishing and releasing ideas that were ahead of their time when their time finally arrives), and that's all I need. A media box that plays my music, plays my movies, runs my SSH sessions, etc. I can cable in storage and burning capabilities with firewire, and finally put my existing machine to good use as the graphics system it wants to be. Yeah, a hypothetical January announcement means the thing will actually ship sometime between March and July. I don't care. It's the same fucking price as a processor upgrade, which still won't be enough to run photoshop at a comfortable speed in OS X. The upgrade and the iBox are both cheaper than an eMac, which can't do the job either, and the G5 that can is waaaay beyond my means.
iBox? iWant. I already have all the horsepower I need- but to use it properly, I need a modern lcIII to offload my bullshit day-to-day background tasks to. The alleged featureset is right, the alleged price point is right, the alleged form factor is a non-issue, the alleged VGA/headless bit is the home run out of the park. Everything I need with none of the bullshit I don't.
It's too good to be true, so I'm just going to assume that it's all lies, damned lies, and push off my processor upgrade purchase until the end of January.
Just in case.
It's four thirty in tha morning, and my third day off this week. I spent the first two with Ramsey, which kicked ass. Hopefully I've gotten all of the Castlevania out of my system. I wound down the second with some convenient shopping (Dark Tower V, vodka, chinese, dropped three rolls of three year old film off very late for "next day" processing). Saw an El Camino in the Giant Eagle parking lot late Tuesday night, which I took as an omen.
Today, I woke up around two, read some of The Confusion, took a nap between three and five, read some more of The Confusion, surfed a bit, read some more of The Confusion, read and replied to email, did some communication through Deviant Art, popped the seals on cargo shipments from north central, read some more of The Confusion, did as much tidying of my room as I can possibly do without furniture (which isn't much), listened to George Carlin (thanks mom!), read a hell of a lot more of The Confusion, found a typo on page 423, took out the trash around four, slashdotted, noted that my room is approximately 30 degrees warmer than the rest of the house, blogged.
I left the house once, for less than a minute, and haven't spoken. At all. I haven't popped photoshop. I did organize pr0n while listening to Carlin, and move files around, and generally make an effort at tidying up my workstation. I did none of my usual day-to-day stuff, other than a shitload of reading, and some minor layout adjustments to the next few ATC pages. Started formulating post-Bodine work contingencies, diplomatic and otherwise.
Oh, and I haven't showered. >.<
In short, a day off in every sense of the word.
Introductory paragraph for a longwinded slashdot rant about software quality:
I use OS X more for reasons of backwards compatability and hardware lock-in than anything else. That, and Windows makes my ass bleed. I fell out of love with Apple when I saw where they were going with OS X and when they started catering to the Yuppy/GAP crowd... but my high school sweetheart getting implants and a cel phone isn't going to drive me into the arms of bubba, the 400lb prison stud who bathes annually (aka, Windows), or the dork with the emo glasses and the overbite who thinks being a dork is cool because the only media he takes in says it is (aka, Linux).
One of these things is not like the others.
How this came about is anybody's guess.
From the Daily Rotten:
Dec 25 272 : First official public celebration of Dies Natalis Invicti Solis, a pagan Roman holiday that was later co-opted by Christians to celebrate the birth of their favorite Jew. Turning the holiday into "Christmas" (in 336 AD) was part of a pattern of the church stealing various pagan festivals and feast days.
I'm going to bed waaaay early.
Might be just the thing, looking at the mess that is todays wad of blogasity.
Don't place faith in human beings, human beings aren't reliable things.
The worst part about being a perfectionist and a picky, elitist asshole is the knowledge that your best isn't even in the same league as the worst work of your idols. And that nothing else is worth your time.
Puts the desperation into the ennui of creative burnout- that condition whereby trying to be you AND earn a living become seventeen hour days, seven day weeks, haven't had a day off since my last full-spectrum mental breakdown, etceteras.
If you're creative and have ever been :|, you know this. Burnout is a weird bastard- you're going going going going it rocks going going awesome SHIT NOTHING FUCK pffffffft just staring at the monitor, the sketchbook, trying to summon something, anything, wondering if that part of the brain that is the gateway to Ideas and Visuals is gone and dead, if it's finally silenced, if that's it, that's all, end of line. Equally disturbing that freakouts aside, it's been quieting steadily since puberty.
The worst part is that the OMFG FUUUUCK!!! pressure to find something to do is even worse than trying to think of something to draw. Burnout ain't just creative- it explodes outwards, conquering the decision making process with a carpet of atomic bombardment. It's a conflict- thinking about doing has preempted the doing itself. In my experience, the only solution is to let the thinking about bit run itself ragged, blow itself out, exhaust itself, spunk its introspective mind-semen all over the walls, the floor, the drapes... then quickly and quietly get back to work while it's collapsed in a heap, half-awake, semen-encrusted hands twitching, spluttering, nothing left.
Conflicting priorities, inertia, some other thing I had thirty seconds ago but it fell out of my head like a hubcap through a sewage treatment pool. Etc.
Strike One : October : No copies of Pattern Recognition. Anywhere in Pittsburgh. The one in central Philly didn't have it either. Do note that this is the most recent Gibson.
Strike Two : November : No copies of The Confusion. Anywhere in Pittsburgh. Quicksilver in paperback, System of the World in hardback, but not the middle. Do note that this (and System) is the most recent Stephenson.
Strike Three : December 24th : Holiday Hours! 9am - 6pm! Not mentioned on the web site! Usually closes somewhere between seven and nine! No Dark Tower V for me!
I <3 Amazon.
So irritated by B & N being closed, the whining beggar outside the Rite Aid and the ancient shebeastthing screaming "God damn you to hell!" at incoming traffic that I walked back to work instead of waiting for the bus. Brisk, baby. Brisk.
My holiday gift: I'm at work, on the clock, doing stuff, and I'm The Only One Here. Everybody else is gone. I can think in peace, work in peace, chill out without being shackled to my workstation with headphones, and there's none of the water cooler bullshit that's been making my skin crawl and brain scream ever since I snuffed out the little white dick and started spending more time indoors.
A workday without any of the stress. If I had a wish list, that would be right at the top of it.
Of course, my failure to start the day properly rested puts a bit of a damper on it, but hey- I get another go at it on Sunday.
Dad got the Amazon stuff I sent him- he's pleased. I paid rent. Opened a gift that had been mailed to me, laughed my ass off and thanked the gifter profusely. Some people make it much easier to put up with the rest of the species. :-)
I think I let Ramsey down, which makes me wonder about things like socializing- it's fairly obvious it's not something I like doing (especially with New People, New Environments, etc.), and I know some of that has to do with operant conditioning stemming from the reasons I left the Beehive and some of the reasons I quite smoking- anything beyond that (like, you know, the thesis statement, the actual motivating factor, the EUREKA!, etc.) is going to require a shitload of masturbatory introspection to get to.
It isn't quite that time of year yet. I'll save that for February. :P
In the meantime, it's my hope I'll be able to hang out with Ramsey tomorrow, and get some decent rest tonight.
Alarm blammed off at 730 this morning, bringing an instant end to what was, at most, three and a half hours of sleep. Maybe four, if I'm lucky. An extended blink, not nearly enough to feel rested. Tired. Can't seem to jump my brain into wakefulness- redid the first three pages of ATC chapter zero for the fifth time and am completely stalled on getting the pencils for the next page started.
IRC is completely dead. So's pretty much everything else- it's a staff holiday, so the only people in the building are me and security. And patrons. I want a nap- I feel pretty much exactly like I did yesterday. Which is to say, not exactly awake. Far from it.
The decline of Front Line Assembly
20:35 <@xenia> It's funny how out of touch I am with news concerning france now.
20:35 <@xenia> i didn't even hear of that bridge at all and it's all over the news in europe.
20:35 <@xenia> American news are so self centered. :|
20:39 <@solios> American news media blows hardcore.
20:40 <@solios> Accoring to American News, We Are The Motherfucking Universe.
20:40 <@solios> which is how shit like the peterson trial gets even a sound bite, let alone the bullshit media circus.
20:40 <@solios> fagbot: doot for american news
20:40 <+fagbot> ISN'T THIS JUST A REGULAR ASS PARADE
20:40 <@solios> fagbot: botsnack
20:40 <+fagbot> thanks solios :)
20:41 <@xenia> Haha
20:41 <@xenia> Great.
20:41 <@xenia> Everywhere in Europe I've seen the news devoting half of their time to international issues or random events in the world.
20:42 <@solios> Yeah.
20:42 <@solios> See, here's the thing.
20:42 <@xenia> The only foreign stuff I've seen so far is Blair pledging his neverending love for Bush.
20:42 <@solios> We've got the bombs.
20:42 <@solios> Nevermind the fact our military is getting its ass handed to it. We've Got The Bombs.
20:42 <@solios> That kind of shit goes to your head.
20:42 <@xenia> :/
20:42 <@solios> Also, America has always been vaguely resentful of the fact that a "rest of the world" even exists.
20:43 <@solios> Historically, people moved Here when they got sick of There.
20:43 <@xenia> Yeah.
20:43 <@xenia> Nowadays being in america is roughly akin to being in an episode of The Prisoner.
08:28 < solios_>
08:28 < solios_> >.<
08:28 <@ejp> nice
08:28 < solios_> it's COLD and WET.
08:28 < esch> solios_: Whiner.
08:28 < esch>
08:29 < solios_> I opened my window to get an idea and it crawled right up my ass. :|
08:29 < esch> TODAY. HIGH OF ONE.
08:29 < solios_> !
08:29 < solios_> omfg.
08:29 < esch> That's not a typo.
08:29 < solios_> LOLLERSCATES
08:29 <@ejp> yeah, but MN is Cold. it's Known.
08:29 < solios_> dude, that SUCKS.
08:30 <@rjbs> could be worse.
08:30 <@rjbs> could be kelvin.
08:30 < esch> Barely.
08:30 < esch> heh.
08:30 < esch> There was a place in MN that was -41 this morning.
08:31 <@ejp> jeebus
08:31 < esch> Yeah, and there's windchill on top of that.
08:31 <@rjbs> -40 is a magical temperature.
08:32 <@ejp> -40 is the temp at which your nads replace your tonsils.
08:32 < esch> It's interesting in MN.
08:33 <@rjbs> -40 C = -40 F
08:33 < esch> 100 degree temp changes are interesting.
08:33 < esch> -20 outside, 80 inside.
23:33 * bda updates his hardening script.
23:36 <@solios> OMFG.
23:36 <@solios> dude that's totally the first three minutes of a porn.
23:37 <@solios> (credits)
23:37 <@solios> (porno groove music)
23:37 <@solios> * bda is codez0r1ng
23:37 <@solios> * door opens
23:37 <@solios> < hot_chick> whatchadoin?
23:37 <@solios> < bda> I'm updating my hardening script.
23:38 <@bda> ...
23:38 <@bda> uhm.
23:38 <@solios> < hot_chick> well... why don't you .... (licks nipple, smacks ass, whatever) flash my bios, big boy?
23:38 <@bda> Actually...
23:38 <@bda> I wrote two scripts while I was in Wichita...
23:38 <@solios> < bda> no, see. This is a HARDENING script...
23:38 <@bda> er.
23:38 <@bda> Not Wichita, sorry.
23:38 <@bda> Plattsburgh.
23:38 <@bda> Steve's wedding.
23:38 <@solios> :o
23:38 <@bda> One was the first version of this script.
23:38 <@bda> The other was a backup script.
23:38 <@solios> hahah
23:38 <@bda> Guess which one Nancy asked me what I was doing...
23:38 <@solios> so it WAS A PORN! :O
23:38 <@bda> Well, not right then.
23:39 <@solios> after the commercials?
23:39 <@bda> After the kids went to school.
22:24 <@solios> so.
22:24 <@solios> busses stopped running.
22:24 <@solios> I can get a ride to Ramsey's.
22:24 <@solios> BUT.
22:25 <@solios> it's from SGG.
22:26 <@ejp> o_o
Applying the previous post to mercury (and everything else in the bloodstream), it's patently obvious I could benefit from listening to my own damned advice, as well as the cluebat Hugh weilds so effectively.
Bitching about the state of mercury is ultimately counterproductive as it does nothing to answer the real motivation to bitch- namely, the site isn't doing what it needs to be doing. Or if it's doing it, it's doing a PENNDOT job of it.
Bitching about ATC is ultimately an exercise in airing the pathological urge that every artist has on some level to be seen. Problem is I'm whining, not bellowing about how FUCKING AWESOME ATC IS. Conviction moves units. Artboi angstification runs counter to most of my "It's a work in progress and I'll advert its existance when it's ready" verbage. Go me.
Bitching about SGG, work annoyances, etceteras ultimately does nothing to advance my intellect, social capabilities, or ability to confront. I do it anyway. Keeping a running log of the mess is like painting a picture one color, one texture, one stroke width at a time- eventually a solid idea as to why I'm pissed begins to emerge, and I can act on it.
In the meantime, I'm whining for an audience, a situation that isn't doing me any favors. If I really wanted to whine for an audience, I'd use my livejournal account as more than a placeholder, and I'd be saying things like this more often and louder:
Still, it's annoying as FUCK when five o'clock rolls around and coworkers are not only showing signs of not leaving, but of digging in for the long haul- thus undermining and actively thwarting the entire purpose of my work schedule. Structured for a few hours of meetings and social workplace filler, and a few hours of actual application. I need a certain amount of mental space to do certain kinds of mental exercising, and people staying later than they need to and doing nothing but filling my peripheral vision with that time isn't helping my mental stability any. If my brain could handle seven and a half hours of being talked to, I'd be showing up earlier. Fuck the water cooler- work suits my social needs about as well as a hedgehog's pubic bone compares to a walrus's. Fear and loathing in the intellectual void, with a nine percent chance of any given conversation relating to the job description or the paycheck.
If I had an office, I'd have office hours, and the door would be locked and bolted the rest of the time, from the inside. But I don't have an office. I inhabit a space with three other people who don't have an office, which several other people find horribly convenient for meetings. It's like spending six hours a day getting my brain gangraped. It was fine for the first few years, but after I quit smoking it became an intensely claustrophobic annoyance that I can't manufacture enough excuses to get away from. Cabin Fever, after a fashion.
On the upside, after five I'm getting paid for the inconvenience. They aren't.
I bitch a lot. I have reasons, much in the same way a lawyer has business cards. The way, sometimes, a lawyer has a pulse. I bitch a lot, and a lot of the people I know bitch a lot. Bitching indicates an unseen need for a change in the environment. In my case, it means I need to boost my blood sugar.
Bitching is a symptom of a greater issue that rarely has anything to do with whatever you're bitching about. Forget the target. Consider the ammunition. Introspection is an incredibly useful tool, and a harsh mistress to loose lips. People don't care about your problems. They have their own, and they spend large amounts of money and time getting away from them. They might care if you're famous, but the kind of people that give a shit about the problems of famous people are the glazed-eyed lardmissiles shoplifting Weekly World News out of the grocery store, sneaking it out in their industrial strength hair rollers. The kind of people who can't find Mexico on a map.
My coworkers bitch a lot, and frankly, I don't get paid enough to listen to it. I get paid enough to run a high pass filter over it, listening for keywords. I drop the rest- it's bitching to bitch, whining to whine, blithering just to hear ones own voice and calling it doing something when really, it isn't. Doing something is doing something, and bitching isn't doing something unless you're a lawyer or a client of a lawyer, in which case you're still required to do some work, in the form of framing up your bitching in legalese- the language that turns your whining into an unearned paycheck.
Most people, I've noticed, bitch because they're dissatisfied. It's great when they realize this, know the reasons. Makes it easier to listen- in some cases it's actually helpful to get the weight of a situation off of your head so you can move on. Great for periodic stress relief- make a career out of it and you're not contributing to society, you're just a whiner.
Then there are those who bitch to bitch, whine to whine, and who will never, ever realize the fact that they're doing it to themselves and using whatever comes along as a scapegoat to justify their own inability, inaction, laziness, etceteras. They're paralyzed without somebody to whine to, they're useless without mountains of emotional support, and they'll never get anything done unless they have a babysitter to listen to them bitch and complain about how fucking hard doing anything is.
If you were an observant kiddie, you noticed that your parents actually paid your babysitter for the privelege of putting up with you. If you weren't, you take it as a given that there's always going to be someone to hang your neurosis on- someone to do your thinking for you, someone to motivate you. Proxy-parents for kiddies who don't want to grow up, face the world and kick it in the fucking nuts. Put a dent in it.
Life isn't going to hold your dick while you piss. Life is, in fact, eventually going to get sick of your whining and start ignoring you, because ultimately, bitching isn't doing, and if you're not doing, you're never going to get anything done.
Did some online holiday shopping for the Male Parental Unit prior to passing out around three. Order shipped this morning, he should have it just in time to get the maxium use of it.
Get to work, there's a key to the office on my desk. Office manager and ~supervisor are totally down with my Shutdown proposal, boss is out. The Chris are out (NDO and Floater), so I have the work area completely to myself for the first time since Thanksgiving. Somebody loves me.
Install some new front page stuff for ATC on a trial basis.
Phoner from Ramsey. O.o
Blood sugar dropout around four. Almost bit Matt's head off. Caught myself cleanly- he's never done anything that's gotten under my skin, so the bile stood out like a sore thumb. Medicated with m&ms and a beef sammich. Solid.
Four forty five and everyone but Matt and Mindy have left. Phones start going off in alphabetical order- like someone is running the Exhibits phonebook. Mine goes off. Turns out they are- no, there's nobody in. It's just me. And Matt. And a case is leaking in Egypt Hall. No good. The other end of the phone manifests briefly to confirm I'm not talking out my ass and disappears.
Mindy's going in for an MRI this weekend. She's not looking forward to it- the claustrophobia of the hardware moreso than getting her skull imaged. Wonder how she handles the darkroom.
Shut the place off.
Poopenread. Do some pr0nCG. Play some Quake. Write a shell script that keeps iCal synced to my USB flash drive and generally chill the fuck out. Get ready to leave and notice I've apparently been punched in the right armpit. Curious. Make some ATC notes waiting for the bus. Do some reading. Alain and Cuthbert are up to their asses, Tarantino style. Tanya's on the bus, wonder what Randy's up to.
Pizza. Home, giant slug of NOG. Love that stuff. Sync iCal, sync Gravicon hardcopy. Listen to Godflesh, report in.
Close to buying a scanner, saving for a proc upgrade that's suddenly cheaper than another machine in the same class as the one I'm running. Still gotta do rent, should be able to hit all three.
Solios vs. SGG (Scary Goth Girl) in a nutshell:
Happened across this by way of this, which is just too appropriate. ROFFELHAUS, LOLLERSCATES, etc. Thank the gods that most of the >_< is firmly interred in 2002.
Blaine is a pain, and that is the truth.
Head straight, keyboard loud. Washes out the timeshift, slow down.
Loving Amazon for rounding out my Stephenson collection. Reading King- Book four of The Dark Tower- about as good as it gets, really- I'm tearing through it at record speed.
Holiday greetings to my fingers in the form of a Matias Tactile Pro keyboard. Caps lock is kind of a disappointment, and the | key required a thorough breaking in, but otherwise quite enjoyable. Mechanical and very, very loud.
Feeling the artistic burn- coming up with an idea and executing it in the same day is, I'm realizing, not one of my strong points. The ATC production model complements this nicely- by the time I get to an illustration, I know the exact context it's fitting in to, how it's going to be lit and textured... it's planned months or weeks or hours in advance.
Also, a sudden burst of the opposite sex. Spent some quality time with Ramsey on Monday night... then bumped into Jolie on the bus- Stacey got on at the next stop- no words, her face quickmix of recognition and shock, oddly amusing. Email from Kristen.
Ramsey rocks. The volume of things we have in common is staggering.
Struck out on graphics production today- no burning focus for it. My head's straight and the game of life is taking a break from vigorously fucking me in the ass, so it's all good.
Mercury feels distant, unuseable. Nothing to say and no way to say it- nothing but hate and angst as the same tired arguments rerun themselves in my head- the rage and anxiety of a metabolism that refuses to manage itself properly.
I'm in a high / shock right now. Feel like my brain is going to explode out the top of my head on a column of thin white smoke at a velocity beyond the capacity of the human eye. I can't speak without starting, stopping, stuttering- I have to deliberately stop and feed each word into my mouth a syllable at a time or nothing comes out at all. When I do this, I sound extremely angry- moslty because I am. It's irritating to actually have to think about the act of communication.
Irritating but necessary, as not thinking about it has caused me some serious problems this weekend- problems that are hinting at an awkward and depressing week. You could crack walnuts with the effort it's taking to think these sentences- the act of typing them could shatter glass. My hands want to pop claws and rip at throats, my mouth wants to scream until my jaw rips free of its moorings, my head wants to fucking explode.
What kept me stable a few days ago is driving me completely fucking insane today and may not even register tomorrow, when I'll likely be a braindead suckzombie who can't even remember his own name.
I'll be seeing a doctor in January. I'd rather sit at work and listen to my brain rot further than spend even five minutes in a waiting room filled with holiday schlock- that shit's what they call a "trigger" in the headshrinking trade, and a trigger is an object or an event or a seasonal decorating style that evokes ("triggers") a reaction in the subject- in this case, annoyance, hate, and the vague itching in my ass as my family-loving supervisor fucks me over for another day off.
So I've hit an emotional land mine, damaged my relationship with someone I care about, and I need my fucking head to be STRAIGHT so I can talk about it without making it worse and my head doesn't WANT TO BE STRAIGHT it wants to RAGE AND KILL BECAUSE IT'S FLYING OFF TO JOIN THE HAWKS and I'm sick of the fucking balancing act because it's not fucking working and "Biochemistry That Works Like A Normal Person's" isn't something I can add to my Amazon wish list.
I wish it was. I'd be able to think straight all of the time, instead of some of the time. Which means I'd be able to communicate with people without hurting them. I'd be able to get my point across without jamming it into your septum by way of your lower jaw and I'd probably be able to listen to what you have to say without taking it personally.
And life would be good and we'd all live happily ever after and that's all I want, really.
Biology continues to insist that's too much to ask for... and mom wonders why I don't want anything for christmas.
22:38 < solios> fuck, why doesn't the indexer just sniff the USB bus onece ever five minutes and if it senses no activity over three consecutive sniffs, then kick in?
22:38 * ejp sniffs solios
22:38 < solios> there's got to be SOMe easy way apple can determine if the mahcine is being USED and then do the procintensive shit if it isn't.
22:38 * solios flatulates all over eric.
22:38 <@ejp> better yet, only run when the screensaver is active.
22:39 <@bda> Yeah, it's called nicing the fucking process lower than user shit.
22:39 * ejp fipples solios
22:39 < solios> two wors, yo.
22:39 <@bda> "fipple"?
22:39 < solios> DEV BUILD.
22:39 < solios> fipple.
22:39 <@ejp> fipple.
22:39 < solios> fagbot: be ejp
22:39 < fagbot> FIPPLE!
22:39 <@bda> ...
22:39 < solios> holy fuck.
22:40 < solios> out of like four possible options fag got the right one righto nthe first try.
22:40 * solios dies.
22:40 <@ejp> that's why you can't dick with the random
22:40 < solios> point.
22:40 <@ejp> bda: a fipple is the thinger what makes woodwinds make noise
22:41 < solios> fagbot: fipple?
22:41 < fagbot> i guess fipple is the thinger what makes woodwinds make noise
22:41 <@ejp> mostly it's an amusing word.
22:41 <@bda> uh.
22:42 <@bda> And you fippled him.
22:42 <@bda> ...
22:42 <@ejp> so when he farts it'll make music.
22:43 <@bda> ...
22:43 < solios> :o
22:43 < solios> sweet.
22:43 <@ejp> non-gaseous ejecta is a small problem though.
22:43 < solios> :|
22:45 <@bda> Like those Playdough factories you had when you were a kid.
22:45 <@bda> With the different attachments.
22:46 <@ejp> I don't think dan needs to be able to shit stars and moons. do you?
22:46 <@bda> Absolutely.
22:46 < solios> dude, that would OWN.
22:46 * solios gets xeno one for the holidays.
For those of you who haven't been following it, Chapter Three of Among The Chosen is done.
15 pages in 23 days after a painful slog of 34 pages in 5 months. The closing scene is some of the best visual work I've done to date. Feels good. Looks good. Attacked and completed with preternatural speed and looking better than Polarity, which is what I was working on in the same timespan last year.
Suction was the fun scene- the rest of it was Necessary, but not exactly Fun, and suffered accordingly.
Laid off due to RSI a couple of times. Waylaid due to mental problems a couple of times. Its a good thing I'm doing Zero next- I'm not starting on Four until I have full production faccilities at home. That'll solve damned near all of my problems, and not just with ATC.
I have a wanging dehydration headache- a combination of pushing myself for eleven hours without a break and starting that push with one fuck of a hangover. I'll write up a full Chapter Three Post Production Thinger when I'm clearheaded- there's a lot I've learned in the last six months- some of it really cool, some of it nasty, and I'm planning on venting that and drawing some candy while I'm pulling together Chapter Zero.
But before that, I'm going to pass the fuck out.
09:22 < solios_> man, I had the most fucked up dream ever.
09:26 < solios_> I woke up with a mad crazy hangover in the bathroom on the top floor of the museum, bootless and covered in vomit and locked in a stall. The bathroom was VAST, like a college gymnasium bathroom. Dimly realize I had to do something... overhere a security guard bitching about startup while he's taking a piss and realize I was supposed to turn the place on... somehow I know it's around lunch. The phone in the bathroom rings- it's the Office Manager. We need to talk. She sounds depressed. I tell her I'll be right down and spend a few minutes getting cleaned up, finding my boots, trying to wake up. Call the elevator. It gets down about seven floors before it breaks- ridingin on top of it down to the sub basement, up a flight of stairs, wandering through massive subway-style tunnels and then I woke up.
09:27 * solios_ notes that the museum has four levels above ground and elevators only service three of them. And the bathrooms are normal.
09:38 <@ejp> fagbot: doot for solios
09:38 < fagbot> i'm feelin' FISTY
09:39 < solios_> :p
09:39 < solios_> I also emailed both of my parents before I passed out, I remember that.
09:42 < solios_> It was a really incredibly strange night. I know I walked home and used the wrong side of the bridge but don't remember most of it. Stocked up on granola bars and crackers at the rite-aid first... then tried to purge when I got home (applied some of Jolie's tips)- no love for it, no real urgency, so I laid THAT aside. Caught up on email, which is a really BAD thing to do when drunk. Passed out.
14:48 * solios wonders if he could afford to live alone.
14:50 <@bda> :o
14:50 < solios> dude, it's the only fucking answer. :(
14:51 < solios> my roommate has annoyingly loud sex four times a day and when he's not fucking, he's watching bad movies with shit speakers that are nothing but treble. And he pays the gas and likes it HOT. So my house is a fucking jungle swamp.
14:51 < solios> Work.... I'm subject to coworkers.
14:51 < solios> who like to talk. >:|
14:52 < solios> if I lived alone, I could just wake up and Do Stuff.
14:52 <@bda> :|
14:52 < solios> rather than leave the house to get some peace of fucking mind, only to finally get to work and realize I'm not getting it.
14:52 < solios> I feel like a trapped fucking animal.
14:53 < solios> THERE IS NOWHERE I CAN GO TO BE ALONE AND DO WORK
14:53 < solios> EMPHASIS ON ALONE
14:00 * ejp scatters m&ms around the level^woffice and makes solios hunt for them
14:00 <@ejp> but every time you get near one two coworkers will appear and harras you.
14:00 <@_Lasar> ejp: Don't forget to make the boss monster a girl.
14:01 <@_Lasar> That tries to get into the Danpants, provided he is wearing any.
14:02 <@xenia> Oh, coworkers problems?
14:02 <@xenia> Yeesh.
14:02 <@xenia> At least you have a job :/
14:03 <@solios> point.
14:03 <@solios> _Lasar: hahah
14:03 <@ejp> _Lasar: SGG.
14:03 <@solios> fagbot: doot for SGG
14:03 <+fagbot> 1. GO TO BED 2. KILL YOURSELF
14:03 <@solios> O_o
23:00 < vai> my first day at work!
23:00 < vai> job one: standardise archi.
23:00 < vai> EEK
23:01 < solios> :O
23:01 < vai> and google groups got the ghey.
23:02 < vai> job two: 34895234958-345zillion icons :\
23:03 < solios> woot.
23:03 < solios> fagbot: doot for vai on the clock
23:03 < fagbot> I'M THE CAPTAIN OF YOUR BALLS